Atlana, April 1949: The Magnolia Tree
by sjowall1452
Summary: I have called them Jack and Ennis, with whom they share some chasracteristics, but they lived and died, and played Major League Baseball, the most homophobic of all sports, were the best of friends, but not lovers, as I pretend.


**Atlanta, April 1949: The Magnolia Tree**

**Non-disclaimer:** This is where I'm supposed to say that Annie Proulx created these characters, or they're the guys who acted the parts of the characters Annie Proulx created (except that I don't know anything, really, about their personal lives). After reading Maggie's (B73's) "Mason-Dixon," I took it completely to heart, and decided I would write a sequel (she's really written quote a few herself, but I was very taken with the idea of adding to the series of somewhat reincarnated Ennises and Jacks myself). So I searched my BB-sized brain, and came up with a couple of guys I thought likely candidates…Alas! They turned out to be real, and didn't turn out to be Jake or Heath, either. I called them Ennis and Jack. The more I wrote, the less Ennis became like Ennis, but, oddly enough, the more Jack became like Jack. I'd written quite a bit before I noticed this, and started wondering what to call them. I mean, I could use their real names, but I didn't want to get sued (which I may anyway). I called them Ennis and Jack. I consulted with marakeshsparrow, and she said it didn't seem like too much of a problem to her if I wanted to call them Ennis (If you like) and Jack (if you like) the first time I mentioned them, and then just stick with Ennis and Jack. So: what we have here is RPS, about people some of you don't know, and about whose personal lives I know fairly little—though more than you might guess, since great books have been written about them, and neither of them objected to talking about themselves to authors, and one of them actually wrote an autobiography. Or was it two? One appeared in a movie (as himself), and the other in two (as himself).

So what is there left to say? These two guys were best friends, and I thought it would be interesting to imagine that they had been more than best friends, especially in the most homophobic surroundings in the U.S.A, and I don't mean Wyoming, or Texas. I mean Major League Baseball.

So: mild baseball (no actually playing of the game; difficult terms glossed). Miscegenation (one black guy; one white guy)--- irregular from Latin _miscere_ to mix + _genus_ race—no negative connotation. The word means sex between people of different races, not just—as many think—marriage, and producing children by people of different races. Incidents, dialogue (on and off the field) as real as possible, including the date and place, carefully chosen because of an incident, mentioned in the story, which happened there at that time. The love story, the slash, is of course entirely imaginary (and I better add the Boss to the dog pile of the misrepresented; he was a great person, but probably not _that _understanding). I should say that in 1949, a white man with good manners was expected to refer to a black man as "Negro." "Black" was still derogatory.  
**Rating:** M

**Debts:** Of course, I never would have written the story if I hadn't seen Brokeback Mountain. Thank you to Annie, Larry, Diana, Ang, and the actors, craftsmen, and crew of same. These men are not your Jack and Ennis, but I decided to make them mine. Thanks also to Tom Harris, whose one liner (described by him as "old" in his story "Wyoming Snow") about the ears, I have stolen. And to anyone who watched the first "Scrubs" Monday night, November 13, apologies. I am a thief (I think the line was "maybe your guys swim in circles"). The other stolen and modified line is by a famous author, and it was a long time ago, and maybe she has forgotten

* * *

Atlanta, April 1949: The Magnolia Tree

Where do you come from?  
Where do you go?  
Come for to see my  
Cotton-Eye Joe.

Come for to tell you,  
Come for to sing  
Come for to show you  
My diamond ring.

If you were mounting the ancient bus behind Jack (if you like), just outside Ponce de Leon Ball Park, Atlanta, you would have thought him a teen-aged boy, not tall (5'9"— small for a professional athlete), quiet, tank top, shorts, gym shoes and white sox, sandy hair still damp from his shower after the game.. But the bus driver recognized him right off from the front, a grown man, light lines down each cheek, brown eyes and a mouth that said not only had be been to the big city, he'd lived there for some years. "Hello, Jack, visiting?" meaning, visiting Ennis. (if you like)

"Yeah," said Jack, smiling, surprised, revealing a long dimple, fairly high up on his left cheek. The driver was of course white.

"I'll tell you where to get off—it's a pretty long way."

"Thanks," said Jack, and mused his way toward the back. _One day_, he thought, _and they all know who I am, and where he's staying_…

It was medium crowded, mainly with black people, a few seats left here and there. Had he left an hour earlier, even with the buses lined up five deep, there would have been no seats. But after his shower, after the game, the Boss had approached him, "Jack—could you call Ennis—"

"I'm going to see him," said Jack.

"Oh? Slumming, Captain?" asked the Boss.

"That's pretty funny," said Jack. The Boss raised his eyebrows in a mild expression of his continual thanks that Jack, his quietly spectacular shortstop, and Ennis, his furiously spectacular second baseman, were the best of friends, this white Kentucky captain and this California Negro, the first Negro in 65 years to play baseball in the Major Leagues. And that both of them seemed to feel it was no big deal. He wrote the message, the address and the phone number on a slip of paper, and handed it to Jack.

"_**Dr. Green?"** _said Jack, and laughed.

"Well, yes, Lot of Dr. Greens in Georgia, you know. Not just the Grand Dragon of the Klan."

"O.K," said Jack."Lemmie get this straight. He'll send a car—jeez…send a car for Ennis… 10 A.M? What about Roy? Do they get to stay there all three days?"

"He's already collected Roy. Yes, he'd be delighted. Ennis—I dunno. It's like he was stealing a base, the way he can get out of a building, so I didn't even get to tell him. You, on the other hand, hang around."

Jack almost refrained from saying anything, but couldn't help it quite: "I once counted about 50 different ways he can get from one base to the next."

"That many?" said the Boss. "Well, enjoy yourselves. You sure he'll be there?"

"Na…not exactly. But he mentioned a great restaurant across the street from the hotel, ribs, brisket, three kinds of sauce, cornbread… the whole nine yards. Gotta celebrate! Did you know that the words "Ku Klux" come from the sound it makes when you cock and lock a shotgun?"

"Yes, I did. Do you really think a 14-1 victory over the Atlanta Crackers is cause for celebration?" asked the Boss, deadpan.

"Yes Sir, I really do," said Jack, laughing, and he did. Behind him, Billy Cox took a large gulp from the drinking fountain, turned around, and spit all of it onto the linoleum floor.

"Fuckit!" said Billy, "Atlanta water is the worst water yet!"

"I believe we have Cokes, and other things, Billy," said the Boss, mildly.

"I just wanted some plain water. Sorry, Boss," he mumbled, and he went to get a towel.

The Boss looked at Jack, who was standing perfectly still, his eyes closed, and one hand out as if balancing on a tightrope. Slowly, he brought his other hand up to the small of his back, spread it out, facing in, and then lowered it again.

"Jack! Are you O.K?"

Jack opened his eyes. "Wh-what just happened?" asked Jack.

"Billy decided he didn't like Atlanta water," said the Boss, indicating the floor, as Billy loped back with a towel, mopped it up.

"Oh, yeah…yeah. Hey—" he suddenly grew animated, "you know that French expression that means—ya think everything that's going on around you already happened---every tiny little thing?"

"Déjà vu."

"Yeah, that's it. Well, is there one for—the opposite?_"_

"What?"

"When that water hit the floor, it reminded me of –something that hasn't happened yet._"_

"What?…When?"

"I don't _know_! And I don't know when—five minutes, fivc hours, five years from now."

The Boss was confused. "I'm sure you've heard someone spit something out on the floor before…

"It wasn't the spitting, and it wasn't before, it was—never mind. I better get out of here."

"Perhaps," said the Boss, who was quite intrigued, "it has something to do with being a shortstop. You keep book see note 1 on a lot of batters, don't you? Trying to anticipate—

"Yeah, —I—do. Maybe so… Night, Boss. I'll give him the message," said Jack, and moved quickly away, with a low wave. "Sure seemed damned important," he said to himself, as he headed for the stairs.

The Boss's head, well over twice as old as Jack's, was literally crammed with ideas of what "it"—the future thing—might be, but always wanting to keep an open mind, he didn't fix on any of them.

"What was you 'n Jack talkin' about? Me spittin' out the water? I'm real sorry. Terrible stuff…" said Billy, holding the damp towel.

"I wish I knew, Billy." His eyes followed Jack as he approached the stairwell. Considering he was looking at the retreat of the best short stop in the league, he might have smiled, but he looked after Jack with serious, almost thoughtful eyes.

The Boss, after all, was a deep thinker. Actually, what he was thinking primarily was _Ivory Soap_, which was what Jack smelled like. He cupped his hands at the last moment: "Don't forget curfew, Captain!" he called.

"Don't worry!" Jack called back. _Am I worried?_ thought the Boss. Silly question: he was always worried…if it wasn't about one thing (like the lineup), it was another (like—where were Ennis and Roy, 2 of the first 4 Negro players in the Major Leagues this century, going to sleep their first nights in Atlanta---forgot that one…). "Non déjà? Pas encore? Au moins pas encore? Pre vu?" he muttered under his breath. _Who knows? Maybe if I tried it in Latin._…(he'd almost become a Latin teacher).

Jack sat down next to a black man, and looked around him.

"Ain't you s'posed to be sittin' up front, Sir?" said the black man, Then: "Oh—Mr. Jack—I didn't recognize you right off. Spec' you can sit anywheres you want on this bus," he said. There were appreciative murmurs from the surrounding seats. Jack felt almost overwhelmed for a minute. The bus driver didn't turn his head. Georgia sure had changed since he was last here, he thought with perhaps undue optimism,—about 20 years ago. But then, so had he; that was the truth.

"Folks, we got us the Captain here," announced Jack's seatmate, for anyone whose attention it had escaped.

"Great game, Jack," said someone (since Ennis had landed permanently at second base, he always considered a compliment like this as meant for both of them. His personal rating of their double-play combination was slightly above that of Tinker, Evers and Chance). There was general applause from all over the back of the bus, and even some from the front ten seats (white). Seeing the slightly surprised look on Jack's face, the man said, "Well, who would _you_ rather watch: the Atlanta Crackers or the Brooklyn Dodgers?" Before Jack had time to give this serious consideration, the man, touched his thigh gently, "'n—don't think, for a minute, that there's one Negro baseball fan in this country that'll ever forget what you done for Ennis," he said, and nodded confidently to himself.

_But—how do they know? They must read their newspapers, listen to their radio stations---and the great Word of Mouth. No way any of them could know about this afternoon, yet, he thought._ He grinned to himself. "We're friends," said Jack, simply, which somehow seemed to be exactly the right thing to say.

As Atlanta crawled by, Jack thought about the things they might know here: the petition he wouldn't sign, Jack, the Kentucky boy, wouldn't sign, protesting the acquiring of Ennis for the Dodgers, after a triumphant year in Montreal (in a farm system created by the Boss himself). That they played cards, watched the races, ate together? That he could always make Ennis grin? Who knows? Then there was that hot, muggy day in Boston, nearly two years ago now…during warmup…

The fans _and_ the Braves' dugout had really been on Ennis that day. Jack remembered how ashamed he had felt—having lived in the Five Boroughs for 7 years, he sometimes felt more loyalty to the part of the country above his own state (which never did secede from the Union, actually), when he had to choose. But _Boston…_the fans mainly just booed, but the dugout…

"Black bastard!"

"Shine my shoes, boy…"

"Motherfucking black sonofabitch!!"

"Hey, why doncha go back to Canada; they gotta whole _country_ full of nigger-lovers up there!"

"Hey, Snowflake, which of your teammates' wives you gonna make time with tonight?" Ennis acted like he was deaf, like the Boss told him to do, for a while. For...two years.

And then, suddenly, they had switched to Jack, who thought_—they heard about the petition, that we're friends…who knows?_

"Hey, Jack, ya nigger lover!"

"Ain't you shamed, Kentucky boy, fuckin' a nigger?

Jack had sauntered with all deliberate speed over in front of the second baseman to Ennis, standing a few feet to the second base side of first (his base, for the time being), and put his left hand on Ennis's shoulder as the two heads bent together, and they appeared to be discussing game strategy. What was actually said was:

Ennis (motioning with his left hand, as if in serious discussion): "That doesn't sound fair, Jack. They give me all the women, but all they give you is me!"

Jack: "Huh?" (grinning) "Oh, that…I don't usually listen to what they say …just the tone is enough…you've been working on the tagging foot--it shows…you 'n Rae doin' O.K?"

Ennis: "Fine, except we're in this hole in midtown…"

Jack: "How's the baby?"

Ennis: "Great---be nice if we had two bedrooms… "

Jack: "No nursery?"

Ennis: "Nursery? Anything with walls be nice…"

Jack: "Shit. Guess the Boss was too busy makin' you a Dodger to help find you a home…well, back to the salt mines," Jack almost let his hand trail down Ennis's shoulder and over his bare, black, sun-soaked arm to the elbow as he walked away.

The ball had continued around the field as they spoke, lazy or quick tosses that avoided the little knot of the shortstop and the first baseman, and the noise from the dugout and the stands had gradually lessened, until you could have heard a pin drop in the stadium…it had been the unity they expressed in touching while they talked.

Although he remembered every word of the conversation, what he remembered best now was...

"Hey Jack!" The bus driver was calling him. The bus had been stopped for 30 seconds.

"Oh. Sorry!" Jack scrambled down the isle, the steps, and turned and waved to the bus and mouthed "Thank you!"

"Man, that boy sure can _move!" _someone said. There was general laughter. The driver tapped hard on the front window, indicating a 5-story yellow brick hotel, 2 or 3 doors up the street. Jack nodded, turned away, and pulled the slip of paper from his pocket. Sure enough, that was it. Everyone on the street was black, everyone.

The lobby was covered with a huge Indian rug, so worn that in places, only the weave was left, cracked sofas and mended, stuffed chairs, but very clean. Jack tried to head right for the elevator, but the hotel clerk behind the copious window called him: "Mr. Jack, Sir!"

"I know the room number," said Jack.

"I wanted to ask, if you would be so kind and sign my book."

Jack walked over to the window, and took the folded piece of cardboard with "Atlanta Crackers" printed on one side, ads on the back, and the names and positions of the men of the two teams each occupying one side of the interior fold. The littler booklet was meant to keep score in, a batter at a time, an inning at a time. He found his own name, took the fountain pen the clerk had produced from his pocket, unscrewed it, and signed—his nick name and his surname. Then he paused; his brown eyes twinkled at the clerk. "Bet you didn't know—they've had these booklets around since before _the last Negro before Ennis played in the Major leagues."_

"Mr. Jack, you pullin' my leg. There warn't none before him."

"Oh yes. About 65 years ago, there was one. A catcher. Great catcher—like Roy--, light hitter, though. Moses Fleetwood Walker was his name..."

"What happened to him?"

"Same as happened to all the other Negroes weaving their way into pro ball… gentlemen's agreements, boycotts, Jim Crow… "

The desk clerk shook his head, and then smiled and nodded again at Jack, as he walked toward the elevator.

If you had the good fortune to ride in an ancient elevator in 1949, and again in 2006, you would notice that—they're pretty much the same. Wrought iron bars all around you, and all the pullies and ropes on the outside visible on three sides. The thing crept at an excruciatingly slow pace to the second floor. There might have been one difference—if there were an elevator operator, it would most likely be 1949---but there was none in this one.

The long Indian runner rug down the hall was much mended, the sides so thin it was hard to tell where the rug left off and the floor began. Jack noticed the gas-jet lights on the two walls; he'd seen gas jets before, mainly in the South, and mainly on railroad trains. He remembered the conductor coming down the isle, and lighting each jet, in 1935, and his father, a Southern Railroad detective, saying "now you remember this, so you can tell your grandchildren you road in a train with gaslights in 1935!" So Jack had remembered…he knocked softly on the door marked 211.

* * *

"It's not locked," came the tenor voice from within. Jack quietly opened the door, and closed it behind him. There was always a nearly conscious expectation on his part, each time he saw Ennis after an absence, of hearing Paul Robeson's deep bass rolling out of him. But it was always the tenor. Ennis, seated by the table across the room was an extraordinarily handsome black man—or Negro, as we called them then---, just under 6'; his skin seemed carved from some dark wood to set off the bright, nearly black eyes with the curling lashes, and yet soft skin at the same time. The thick black hair, soft and wiry at once, invited the touch. His right eye looked just a bit to the right of the left one. (He had once told Jack this was so he could keep one eye on the pitcher and one on the first baseman. Jack became concerned: after all, sometimes you only want to watch one thing—like a baseball, coming at you at 95 miles an hour, headed for the strike zone, the dirt…or your head, your upper or lower arm, your thigh, your hand on the bat, your throat, your ankle, your back…or even behind your shoulders. These pitches had all been served up to Ennis in infinitely greater numbers than to anyone else in history…Ennis had laughed, seeing Jack's frown. "It's called _strabismus_—a misalignment of the eyes. Sometimes it can be a symptom of a serious or mild vision problem, but in my case—nothing—20-20." All of these features were set off by the fact that he now wore only a white undershirt and white boxers, covering part of a big-boned, muscular body, uncompromisingly black (not blue-black, as we now sometimes see in people coming directly from Africa, but—black.)

"Jeez, Ennis," said Jack, as he sat down on the linoleum, looking at his host, and clasping his legs in his arms, "What if I was the cleaning lady?"

"Not a chance; They wake you up, if you sleep till nine." He grinned, and Jack grinned back.

"I was just having the neatest daydream," said Jack

"Were you?" said Ennis, drawing a breath, his mind perhaps elsewhere.

"Yeah. What if Roy or you or the Duke really got hold of one and hit it out—into the magnolia tree, at the dead centerfield wall??"

"462 feet..."

"Yeah…and it stuck _good _in that damn magnolia (the Crackers did indeed have a very large magnolia tree which they'd planted many years ago just inside the deepest part of centerfield. The tree still stands, though the Crackers are gone).

Ennis smiled. Then, absently, sang three words: "Scent of magnolia…" He was completely unprepared for Jack's reaction.

"No, don't! Don't' sing it! Please…"

Ennis bent his body toward Jack, laced his hands in front of him and said, seriously, looking into his eyes "You don't get along with 'Strange Fruit'?"

"No! I can't take it!"

"Don't like Billie Holliday?"

"I wish she hadn't written it."

"She didn't. Some foreign Jew in Baltimore wrote it.. I'd rather hear about lynching than pretend it's not still happening."

"That's you. She sings it for you. It's my people, doin' the lynching…" There were tears in his eyes. "I think about you, and all the others, and...it makes me sick, like worrying, feeling ashamed…"

"I never realized…it might be as scary for you as for you as for me," he said. Jack smiled at Ennis, the long dimple appearing high up on his left cheek.

"I didn't know you thought much about that stuff," said Ennis.

"I don't. Less I hear that damned song…"

"'They're not throwing at ya because you're black, Ennis. They're doing it because they don't like ya,'" Ennis said, and giggled, quoting one of Jack's famous on-field remarks.

"Well, it's true. You're a fierce son of a bitch. Specially since the Boss took your muzzle off—anyone who treats you unfairly treats you--and the whole Negro race-- unfairly, and what a roar that gets!"

"Damn right." Then he leaned back in the chair, relaxed. Suddenly, he started laughing. "'Ennis. Don't stand so close to me today. Move away, will ya?' God, you were funny this afternoon, Jack."

"All I got out of you was a little smile," said Jack.

"I was still scared—but not nearly as much as before. Listen, when I get letters from the Klan saying I'm gonna be shot if I play today, it doesn't matter how much the Boss says 'The only delay will be in seating the huge crowd; the only interruptions will be from screaming fans.' I think to myself, all it takes is one man, among those screaming fans, with a high powered rifle with a good scope on it…I don't think about it often, but here…"

"I know," said Jack. " But…I didn't really know...you were afraid of—anything," he said, with a little smile, his head to one side. looking at Ennis's face.

"Not much," said Ennis." I knew you were coming, by the way," said Ennis.

"How?"

"Ahem!" said Ennis, picking up the telephone from the table with his left hand, the whole thing, and holding it up high.. Jack raised his arms in mock self-protection.

"Don't th'ow that thing at me!" he begged.

"I was just wondering if you knew what it was for. Lessie: Dr. Green"—he laughed—"will pick me up—"

"Send a CAR," corrected Jack.

"Yes- for me at 10; he already has Roy. Curfew is at midnight, and I promised to take good care of you, and if you didn't arrive in an hour, go out and look for you."

"Oh. The Boss called. I'm the Captain of this team; every day I talk to him, and he has to call and ask you to watch out for me…"

"I made that last part up myself," said Ennis, and smiled at Jack. "Do you know," he said softly and unexpectedly, "how sweet you are?" Jack looked down at the linoleum, which was covered with large, pale roses.

"You, too, " he answered to his own surprise, just as softly.

Jack barked out a laugh. 'Me, yeah, like a razor."

"Sometimes…" he said, and began tracing a large, faded rose on the linoleum. He found himself singing, very softly under his breath,

"_Won't you tell him please to put on some speed,  
Follow my lead.  
Oh how I need, someone who'd…"_

Suddenly he realized the next words were "watch over me," and stopped singing, as if he'd never started. Although it was a little past 5, and the temperature was no longer so warm, he felt his whole body getting warm. 'Swear to God, I thought I'd go deaf when you drovc in that first run," he said, still tracing the rose. Ennis said nothing for a minute, and Jack looked up. Ennis's head was a little bowed, eyelashes resting on his cheek.

"That was really a pitch behind the shoulders (see note 2)," he said, raising his eyes, and looking into Jack's with complete warmth.

"What?" said Jack, innocently.

"Little song you were singing" said Ennis, still looking fondly at Jack, contradicting his own words about the killer pitch with his expression.

"Oh, God," said Jack, who never missed a cue from Ennis, and wasn't about to miss this one (though he had never received _this_ kid of cue before). He stood up, shuffled over to Ennis and stood in front of him, hanging his head, as if ashamed; but he wasn't.

Ennis put his right arm around Jack, his hand on his right buttock, and drew him between his legs, "Pipsqueek," he said, into Jack's chest. Impulsively, Jack rested his cheek on Ennis's head, and rubbed it back and forth over the thick, soft, yet wiry hair, completely blissful.

"What's it feel like up there?"

"Soft, and wiry, and—sorta like sofa stuffing."

"Oh thank you very much!"

"I _love_ sofa stuffing."

"I love pipsqueeks," said Ennis, and pulled Jack down to sit on his lap, so that Jack's pale legs crossed Ennis's black ones. He lifted his face and pulled Jack's down to kiss him softly on the mouth. "Especially this one."

They looked at each other silently for several moments, Jack's arms encircling Ennis's neck, and Jack felt like he wanted to say something, but it was a while before words would come out. " I…feel like I'm home…"

" Never had me a shortstop before. Or even a quarterback, No kind of man." He kissed Jack again. I think we can get closer to home than this, hmm? You ever been here before?

"Na…not really. I had this friend in high school, we used to fool around some, before baseball decided I was big enough."

"Jack."

"What?"

"I don't fool around."

"I'd noticed that, Ennis, I really did. You've had a lot of women, huh?"

"I guess I'm supposed to say, 'No, just the usual number.'"

"But that ain't so, is it?" whispered Jack.

"In college…I had to—I'm sorry, but it's true-- beat them off with a stick…all races and nationalities—white, black, Chinese, Mexican, Indian…Chase off the ones I didn't want, that is."

"Bet that wasn't many."

"No."

"But you were just a kid then, Now you're an old man (they were 30 and 31).

"Mm." Said Ennis, playing with the tendrils of Jack's hair in back, "Nice, being an old man."

Jack leaned back so that his right cheek was close against Ennis's left one. "White people and Negro people aren't supposed to talk about sex together. Or politics. Or religion."

Ennis pulled Jack in close and put his lips next to Jack's right ear, so he would feel it every time they moved. "Is it O.K. for them to talk about sex while they're having sex,,,to which I'm giving serious thought , you might be interested to know." Jack could feel Ennis's rock-hard dick beneath him.

"I had that figured out, too, En—Oh!" Ennis had taken one hand from around him, walked it down and covered Jack's damp shorts over Jack's own rock-hard dick with it.

Suddenly, Ennis picked Jack up and stood him on the floor, got up and went to the door, which he locked. "Out there, there are our wives and children, white people and black, men and women, and Major League Baseball—the most fearsome of all—" he walked over to his nightstand, and took from the drawer an unopened, cellophane-wrapped glass jar of Vaseline --- "catch!" (It wasn't a very good throw, in the twilight, but Jack hauled it in,) "And in here, two men are walking around with big, wet hard-ons." Jack had kicked his gym shoes off, scampered over to the bed, and curled up on it . There were only sheets; not a blanket in sight. He giggled. " In here is nice…what'd you buy the Vaseline for? You don't use it in your hair…."

"Dunno. Maybe I bought it for you." Closer to the wall, he curled up around Jack who pushed up against him. He felt little kisses rain on the back of his neck, and big hands touching all over the back of him, and a strange empty sensation in his asshole, wanting to be filled with any part of Ennis. "Hand me that jar." whispered Ennis

"O.K."

"College guys from California," he said, as pompously as possible, know everything. Always have; always will." He threw the cellophane over the foot of the bed, and unscrewed the lid. Before he could dip his long middle finger in it, Jack sat up, grabbed his hand and put the finger in his mouth, sucking on it like a baby.

"Warm in there," whispered Ennis. His ragged breath came quickly, and when he exhaled, there was a slight, whistling sound from his nose. He took his finger back, and quickly but gently pushed Jack back down on his side; Jack popped back up, pulled off his tank top, shorts and boxers and threw them over the lower old-fashioned bedpost closest to him, lay back down. Ennis did the same with _his_ undershirt and boxers, throwing them over the bedpost on _his_ side. They both laughed.

"Well, we can still th'ow,' whispered Jack. Jack heard the sound of the jar getting its lid re-screwed, and felt his buttocks being gently parted, the long finger going back and forth over his asshole. "I…seem to live in there…," Jack got out. The finger slipped half-way in, and crooked a little, like a lazy periscope, thought Jack, who'd been in the Navy, and then, he couldn't think anymore, because the finger found the sweet spot. "Oh!" he said, "What!" He had never been invaded before. The finger straightened out, and began moving back and forth, the length of the asshole, always over the sweet spot, till the whole corridor became one long sweet spot. Jack could feel Ennis's dick rubbing against his back, almost, he felt, against Ennis's will.….the small of his back…

Some part of the prologue had been too long, and within a moment or two, both knew they were about to come. With no more warning than an 'Ennis—"

"Jack—"

Jack felt and heard Ennis's come climbing sharply up his back, heard his gasp, and felt the waves of joy spreading from the infinitely sweet corridor to the rest of his body, "Ennis!" he cried, as Ennis's encircling arm drew him in close, and then—

---he heard the sound of Billy Cox's big gulp of Atlanta water hitting the linoleum locker room floor…he had been lying right next to the edge of the bed, and had come all over the floor—which was also linoleum.

Whatever he was going to say, or utter in any way, it came out as a great sob…followed by laughter.

"Hey, you O.K?" More laughter. "Hey—you—Sweet Spot!"

"What'd you call me?"

"Nothing. Later. Are you O.K.?"

"Uh…yeah. Ennis." Still laughing.

"Wipe your back on the sheet…jeez, we're gonna need a lifeguard in here," said Ennis. "Floor too. Nice shot, Jack." Ennis laughed now. "Well, proves your guys don't swim in circles." Jacks laughter resumed, then suddenly stopped.

"Does not."

"Does too."

"How?"

"Cause they're not big enough to swim against the current."

"O.K. I'm sorry about your damn floor!… but-- Ennis. "

"So much for plan A," Ennis said.

"Ennis." Jack sat up.

"What?"

"I gotta tell you a story…"

"O.K. I want to wait a few minutes anyway, so I can fuck everything up again," he said.

" Again?...you mean there's gonna be more?"

"Well, I just thought, since we're both in this bed, and spritzing come all over the place, it'd be nice if we had sex."

"That wasn't sex?"

"Mm. Sorta. Sorta a cross between sex and…foolin' around."

"I ain't never fooled around like that before!"

"Well, me neither. Damn it Jack, I want to fuck you!" He started planting tiny kisses all over the back of Jack's neck again. Jesus Christ…

"Oh, God. Here we go again….but I gotta tell you this story. It belongs here."

"O.K. Shoot."

"Uh..that's what it's ... now, pay attention"

"O.K."

Jack, sitting, told Ennis all about Billy and the Atlanta water, the linoleum floor, and the small of his back (which he'd completely forgotten), his "not yet happened," feeling, and the Boss.  
Ennis lay back and laughed. Although it was dark in the room, Jack could see the dark outline of Ennis against the white sheets. "The Boss get it figured out yet, y'think?" said Ennis smothering a giggle.

"Jesus God, I hope not," said Jack "But...what do you think? Why'd I get the weird feeling that something like that was gonna happen again?"

"I think…maybe…you knew it was."

"Oh sure. That I'd be lying next to the edge of your bed with your finger up my ass, and .we'd both—crack out of turn—and--"

"That's a misuse of a scam term—"

"I know; I just felt like it sounded good there."

Ennis giggled. "You're funny, Jack."

"And I'd come all over your linoleum floor… I didn't even know you _had _a linoleum floor!"

"O.K. It's magic."

"That's what I thought," said Jack, smugly. He lay back down, with Ennis's arms around him. "Y'know, tomorrow, on the field, you're gonna th'ow the ball to someone, and my eyes are gonna get fixed on your hand, and my whole body will grow roots in the ground like that damned magnolia tree, forever," he said.

Ennis stroked Jack's hair. "You just made a poem. A good one."

"I did? It is?" He turned over, facing Ennis.

"Best poem I ever heard by a ballplayer."

"How many you heard?"

"That was the first." Jack reached for the pillow, and smothered Ennis with it. "You dawg."

After peace had been restored, with Ennis's arms around him, Ennis started whispering in his ear again (which Jack found more exciting that almost anything): "Y'know, sometimes I think, if there wasn't any you, there wouldn't be any me."

"Hell, Ennis, I'm not even always around."

"That's the best part: when I need you, you're there—like this afternoon—and when I want to be on my own, you make yourself scarce."

"Even before I felt the—physical stuff, I felt… I think I'm sorta..in love with you."

"Me too.,": he brought his hand down in front of Jack, and gently stroked his dick, his balls. "Oh God, got a busy night planned?" Jack asked his dick. "You're in love with me?" said Jack.

"Yeah, guess so." He stared kissing all around Jack's ear. Then he stroked his hair, continuing over the ear; it sounded like waves coming up on a beach.

"Oh…"

"Where is that…"

"Your corner, by your clothes."

"Sit up," said Ennis. Jack sat up; Ennis was sitting too, facing him. Jack sensed, rather than saw, him spread the Vaseline all over his erection.

"No finger this time?"

"No. You seem…overly sensitive to my fingers."

"It wasn't that…just too long…"

"In the chair?"

"No. No. Too long…being friends."

Ennis spread his legs a little to either side of Jack. "Sit on my thighs." He said. Jack did.

"Put your legs around me. Guide me...to where you wasn't me to go."

With one hand behind him, Jack guided Ennis's dick to his asshole. "That's where I live, I guess" he whispered.

"I think it'll hurt a little at first."

"O.K." He felt the dick poking its way into him, as he leaned back on his hands .

"Now—_you move."_

Jack began moving, slowly at first, yes, there was a little ring of fire at the beginning, no need to worry about that spot, because his dick filled the whole hole, there is was, toward the inside wall, he felt Ennis's legs supporting him from behind, oh it was so good_, all the way to the back now, wonder if I can kiss him now, yes, keep moving, faster, God knows this was what assholes were made for_, he stopped a moment.

"Ennis"

"Yes."

"Just Ennis."

"Kentucky boy, ain't you shamed, fuckin a nigger?" Ennis whispered.

"Fuck!"

"I'm doing the best I can."

"It's so sweet…"

"Sweet Spot…" Ennis kissed him, he felt someone's sweat falling between them., maybe both of theirs, _how does he make it so sweet? _He touched his own dick, but found he'd rather put his arms around Ennis. He came down harder now each time, the sweetness mounting, like posting a heavenly horse, "Are you O.K?" he said.

"Almost," whispered Ennis. Jack heard the whistling from his nose.

"…again," whispered Jack, and started to cover his dick with his hands.

"Don't; I want your come on me."

"Oh…" he felt it in every part of him, in his brain, in his fingers, and felt Ennis grab him and felt the wetness shooting into his asshole, which had clamped tight, then leaking out. He held onto Ennis for dear life, as Ennis held him. They sat there until he felt Ennis slowly slip out of him, and they both lay down, facing each other, arms around each other. "I ain't got no words for this," said Jack.

Ennis stroked his hair. "You know.."

"What?"

"We probably can never do this again.."

"I know. I …guess."

* * *

The floor of the men's second floor shower room in the hotel was made of worn, white tiles, and like the rest of the building, was very clean. They were lucky to havc it to themselves, on a Friday night at nine o'clock. The hot water beat down on both of them. "Turn around; I'll do your back," said Ennis. Suddenly, he grabbed Jack's right arm, and held his own next to it, from behind him. "Look at that, will ya?"  
"Arms," said Jack, conclusively.

"You've got this normal looking, ordinary sized arm—make a muscle." Jack raised his biceps. "That makes a differencc, but look at it compared to mine," said Ennis, holding his muscular, broad arm next to Jack's, and flexing his biceps and triceps. It appeared stronger in every way.

"And yet—you have a shortstop's arm—than which there is nothing stronger, or with better reflexes, and in the Majors, I only have a second baseman's arm"

"Damn good thing, too," said Jack. "Or you would've had my job,' he laughed.

Ennis spun him around and dabbed soap on his nose, spun him back, and continued with Jack's back and hair.

"That soap smells so good… a little …like wood and cologne,' said Jack, his eyes closed. Then Ennis stopped soaping, and put his arms around Jack, resting his chin on his shoulder.

"It's called sandalwood," said Ennis. Both of them knew they could go on making love all night, with naps in between, till Dr. Green's car came in the morning; both of them knew they wouldn't, maybe ever.

"Ennis?"

"What?"

"When do we…stop—touching each other?"

"When we get our clothes on."

"We could spend the rest of our lives naked," suggested Jack. Ennis started soaping Jack's buttocks.

"Wouldn't go over too big in some of the better ball parks," said Ennis. Jack laughed. He had noticed, not just in passing, that when they had sex (twice), and then separated for a few minutes, and then touched again, the wanting came back stronger than before. _Maybe,_ he thought, _after a while you got tired of it. Sure, probably…maybe._ He would have liked…to do to Ennis what Ennis had done to him. Would Ennis feel the same thing?

"Ennis—what do you call that place, you know, in my ass, you know, the one that starts me feeling like Truman decided for real to drop an a-bomb on Russia, and I was it?"

Ennis laughed. He turned Jack around, and handed him the soap. Jack stood on the balls of his feet to soap Ennis's hair.

"Promise you'll believe me?"

"Promise I'll…why shouldn't I believe you?"

"It's usually called the sweet spot."

Jack laughed. "Sure it is, and I'm usually called Mickey Mouse."

"I'm not kidding. Sometimes the joy spot, or just the spot—but usually the sweet spot."

"The sweet spot is where DiMaggio signs a baseball, you idiot! "

"Yes it is. Always. The narrow strip, across from the maker's stamp, just big enough for one name. Or two, if you write small. Also the fat part of the bat across from the maker's mark, where you try to connect with the ball to hit it out. Golf balls have them too—across from the brand name. Tennis rackets…Lotta sweet spots…besides yours. But those—you already knew about. Nothing like a lecture about something you already know, huh?"

"You're serious, aren't you? Hey, that's what you called me—Sweet Spot."

"Sorry, it just…came out."

"Not too good for yelling across a field."

"No…"

"Too bad…I love it. But…what _is_ it?

"The other side of the wall from your prostate gland."

"Oh yeah, I know about that, too. I just didn't know it turned into nitroglycerine when you petted it…"

Ennis laughed. "Now you know…Apparently," he said, "There isn't much mutual acknowledgement…that there's any overlap between ballplayers and gay guys. That's why you didn't know.

"Say what? _Gay guys?"_

"Homosexuals. Oh. And all men have them, sweet spots…" _Well, that's one answer,_ thought Jack. "Queer and faggot are derogatory—like nigger—specially faggot. Homosexual is neutral. Gay is what gay men prefer. But names for things that people like are always changing."

"Since when? Gay?"

"Bout 20 years.." said Jack.

"_How do you know?"_

"From gay friends. "

"A four letter man at UCLA meet a lot of them?

"No, you meet them by making friends, some of whom seem real different from you. " The water was beginning to cool, and they were almost clean of soap.

_Ennis has one too, he thought. "All men have them" he'd said.…_They dried themselves off, and Ennis put on a white, short sleeved shirt and knee-length khaki shorts, Jack, what he'd arrived in—which was now dry. They dressed slowly, facing each other, as if loathe to say good bye to each other's bodies. The collar of Ennis's white shirt stood out, setting off the black jaw line. _Why does he have to look so beautiful?_ thought Jack.

"You look so great in that white shirt. I want to fuck you, like you fucked me."

"You'd look great in a dark green one. No. Time's up. For this lifetime. Maybe..next time around."

Jack was crying. _Well, God, that's one thing ballplayers can do, cry once in a while,_ he thought.

Ennis came over and put his arms around him. "I'd love it. I love being inside you, and I'd love having you inside me."

"No gay guys in baseball?"  
"My understanding—subject to correction at all times—is that there're as many gay guys in Washington, as in baseball, as in Harlem, as in taxis in L.A; same proportion in all places and parts of the U.S. Different in other countries. It's just that we don't know about most of them yet."

"Cause it's a big, big secret…" Jack sniffed Ennis's shirt, which smelled so fresh, compared to his tank top, which had a bus ride of dust in it, as well as the residue of

the sweat from getting all excited sitting on Ennis in the chair. "Are we gay?"

"Mmm..I guess everyone's a little gay. I think. "There are _no_ openly gay guys in baseball…and you and I are, sort of, in the eye of a storm. It would be the biggest secret around, and if anyone ever found out"…Jack looked very unhappy.

"Maybe. Some time. In Brooklyn….you don't have to take that towel back to the room; there're more there." He closed the bathroom door behind behind Jack.

"I wanted a wet one."

"For what"

Jack giggled. "To Clean Up the Great Experiment." (ee note 3) He ran off barefoot down the hall.

"I'll get you for that!" said Ennis, chasing him.

"Y'allready did," said Jack, pushing Ennis off with his arm. But Ennis grabbed it, and pinned both his arms to the wall, back against it, right next to his room. They were both laughing hard.

Ennis rubbed his large, flattish nose against Jack's scoop-straight one, and said "Oh, hell," and kissed him, for several minutes.

"Maybe _now?" _said Jack.

"Do you know what time it is?"

"No."

"Ribs time."

"Are you saying I should chose to eat ribs over getting into your ass?"

"No. Look: we've been up here for 4 and 1/2 hours; you have curfew; we just shouldn't spend anymore time…alone here."

"O.K." "Maybe" would have to do. But Ennis was kissing him again., his body hard against him.

"Ennis."

"What?'

"**_These are the only clothes I have with me."_**

Ennis opened his door, grabbed Jack and pulled him inside, pinned him against the interior wall. "Well, take 'em off again," said Ennis.

"How can I? You'll holding my _arms."_ Ennis released him, and Jack stepped out of his shorts Ennis knelt down in front of him. Here, Jack had been before. Ennis caressed his balls. "I just gotta taste you, outside and inside." he took his dick into his mouth…

"I thought," whispered Jack, "we weren't going to do this anymore." Ennis was busy, with a rhythmic, quiet blow-job. But not for long. "Oh God," said Jack, as he came, yet again. Ennis closed his eyes, and swallowed the come, for all the world like he was drinking thirstily from a drinking fountain, putting his hands on Jack's, which had been slightly pushing on Ennis's head...Jack picked up one and held it close to his face, looking at the black hand, pale nails and palm._ I don't care if he calls it sex or not. I came three times today, from this man…_

"So much for that decision," said Jack.

"God, why can't I get _enough _of you?…You taste so good."

"Like what?" said Jack, running his hands through Ennis's damp hair.

"Salty, and sweet—like Jack-juice. Last one," said Ennis, softly, and kissed Jack again. "Put your shorts back on."

"3-2," said Jack.

"I can count," said Ennis, grinning, as he walked over to the window and opened it.

A cross section of black Atlanta lay below him: restaurants, hotels, some private housing. The streets were loud yet, and it was quite cool. "What you've got on isn't warm enough. Look in the closet for a jacket," said Ennis, and smiled at an afterthought.

Jack opened the closet, which was almost empty. A couple of uniforms and Ennis's jacket, with his number, but no name on it—and an Army jacket.

"Oooo—can I wear the Army jacket? Hey! A lieutenant's bar! And crossed swords on both lapels!" he touched the right shoulder. "How come you take this around with you.?"

"In case I should ever feel like I want to look like a lieutenant again."

"Do you ever?"

"No."

Jack put his arms into the sleeves, and grinned. Although only 2 ½ inches taller than Jack, Ennis was much more substantially built, chest, arms, neck. "I love this!" said Jack, and let the arms hang down over his hands, then pushed them up. Ennis put on his baseball jacket, and both got into their socks and shoes.

"See-- what if the cleaning lady, who'll have to change the bed, and the desk clerk—bet you talked to him—"

"Could hardly get away…"

"--get together? Now the cleaning lady could think I jack-off all night." Jack giggled, "And I don't mean _you._ But the desk clerk will know you were up here for 5 hours."

"And you think they'll talk about THAT?"

"God knows what they'll talk about…" Ennis came up behind Jack again as Jack opened the door.

"DON'T…put your arms around me, and don't kiss me again…please."

"O.K."

"But promise me, sometime—" they were walking down the hall, "That some time, when we're home, and our wives have taken our kids out to visit for the night—"

Ennis put his hand on Jack's shoulder, "We'll see...how it goes."

"You know how it goes," said Jack, thinking about how he'd like to put his arms around Ennis again. And that the score was 3-2.

* * *

The two men, sitting at the oilcloth-covered table, about 2' square, were devouring ribs, in that teeth- sharpening way enthusiastic rib-eaters do. This included the ritual of stopping every half-rib or so and carefully licking the fingers, and occasionally wiping them on an ample stack of napkins. Jack wore the sleeves of Ennis's jacket pushed way up, and Ennis had asked the waiter for an extra pile of napkins to wipe his hands on, which proved a good idea, since in the 15 minutes they'd been in the restaurant, 15 people had asked for his autograph; of the 15, only ten had asked Jack. Five of them had ignored him, the only white person in the place, as if he hadn't been there. Jack had said to Ennis, between bites, that at last he felt a little like he was in Georgia.

"Don't forget your mashed potatoes," said Jack, ignoring his own.

"What are mashed potatoes?" asked Ennis. When they had first sat down, they were about 5' apart, but the arrival of the food had necessitated moving over the plates, so they were now nearly touching.

Suddenly they both laughed.

"Boy, a night game sure gives a guy an appetite," said Ennis soberly, picking apart another set of ribs

"Great field they got here in Atlanta," said Jack, with equal sobriety, and took a slug from his bottle of beer. They looked at each other and smiled. Ennis put the ribs down, and swallowed some iced tea.

"Methodists,' said Jack, "don't drink or smoke…" he was suddenly pushing the food around on his plate.

"But you gotta admit, we do do some things of interest," said Ennis. They had made the mistake of looking at each other, and now pushed their chairs back from the table. A man in a long tweed coat approached.

."Ennis, Mr. Jack, Sir, could I get your autographs?" he said, producing an official National league-- a Frick--ball, with the red stitching, from his pocket.

"Hey, a clean baseball," said Ennis. "Nobody threw it; nobody hit it."

"It wasn't in the game. I got a nephew, got it for me," he said , his smile showing a fair amount of gold. "Ennis—you on the sweet spot—if you don't mind—

"Not at all," said Ennis, with a barely perceptible look at Jack, who smiled into his ribs. Wonder if he'll ever call me that again? He shook his head at the pleasure of the memory.

"Captain, you on the wide space. Tomorrow, I'm gonna get me Roy's, on the other side."

"How bout the rest of the team.?" Said Jack.

"If they happen to be around, and willin'," he said, grinning and walking away. "Thank you kindly!"

"I just noticed: they call you by your first name, but they call me "Mr." And "Sir."

"Strange little people, the Negroes," said Ennis, who suddenly smiled, and waved at the door. "The Boss is here."

"_Here?"_

"Jack—it's 11:30…"

The Boss walked up to the table, and touched it with his fingertips. Then he bowed from the waist, first to Ennis, and then to Jack, low, so that he almost touched their heads.

"Ennis…Captain…or," he looked at Jack, "There seems to have been some sort of demotion. Should I call you "Lieutenant" now?" Jack smiled.

"I forgot how cold it gets, when the sun goes down,' he said.

"Indeed it does," said the Boss. "You were a Navy man, weren't you? Of course you were."

"Yes Boss," said Jack. "Will you join us for a few minutes?" The Boss motioned for a waiter, and ordered coffee, asked for the loan of a chair from the next table (the restaurant was still surprisingly full), and got it.

"I was just puzzling out how you planned to get back to our hotel before curfew. You're a pretty amazing fielder; can you sprout wings and fly, too?"

Both of the younger men laughed. "Guess I was gonna be late," said Jack.

"Well, we'll both be late" (Jack had never thought of the Boss as having to conform to any kind of curfew), but I'll carry you home in my sweet chariot.' he said.

" Thank you, Boss," said Jack. Ennis was looking at him appraisingly. He closed his eyes for a moment in acknowledgement.

"What were you guys doing for 6 hours?" asked the Boss, apparently with simple curiosity.

"Blackjack, with an occasional hand of Gin," said Ennis, "and jawing about the game."

"How much a hand?"

"Nickel," they both said, simultaneously.

"A veritable chorus," said the Boss.

"That's what we usually play for," said Ennis.

"I know," said the Boss.

Suddenly, Jack knew that the Boss knew all about it. Also, that he would tell no one, unless one or both of them made this impossible. Both were fair liars, with their mouths, Jack was an excellent liar with his body; nobody could lie with his body like Ennis. But this would do no good, driving back in the Boss's car. He would have to tell the lie. With his mouth, he would have to say something like "I promise," and there was no way he could mean it. Even if it turned out to be true.

Ennis seemed to watch these thoughts go through Jack's head, as if he were reading a newspaper.

Jack and Ennis wiped their hands carefully, and stood up, anticipating the Boss, who took a couple of sips of scalding coffee, and threw a $20 bill on the table, as he, too stood up.

"You don't have to do that, Boss," said Ennis. "I got plenty of money."

"Nonsense. It will be a while till you have as much money as I have. Besides, he said, distinctly, "I am robbing you of your company."

"Yes, Boss," said Ennis, quietly.

"Goodnight, Ennis. See you early in the afternoon, said the Boss.

"Goodnight, 2B, said Jack.

"Night, S.S," said Ennis. At first Jack was taken aback, until he remembered that "S.S." also stood for "shortstop." (_Dumb, _thought Jack, _I just finished calling him 2B_.

"Goodnight, Boss," said Ennis, waiting at the table until the two other men had left. He watched as they crossed the street, to where the Boss's car was parked in front of his hotel. He raised his eyebrows, and sat back down, with a neutral expression. For a moment, he put his head in his hands. Then he straightened up and finished his iced tea.

* * *

Jack followed the Boss dejectedly across the street. Suddenly, he stood in the center of it, the traffic almost stopped now, and said, " That's a a 1940 Pontiac Straight Six—suicide doors in back, and—hey, a running board!" Jack moved quickly around the car, jumped on the running board, saw the passenger side window cracked open a bit, and hung on.

The Boss followed him. "Jack. What are you doing?"

"C'n I ride on the running board?" asked Jack, brightly.

"You know riding on running boards is—has always been, I think-- illegal. Certainly since the year this car was made. Excuse me," he said, as Jack jumped off, and he unlocked the passenger side door.

"My daddy--dad used to say, "It's O.K. in the country, but don't try it in town."

"Maybe so, but not anymore. I rented this for the weekend (Jack wasn't sure you could do that, except at airports—they had taken the train from Macon; the team had not yet flown). Yes, a Pontiac. And—if this isn't town, I don't know what is."

"Thanks," said Jack, soberly, as the Boss opened the door. Jack sighed as he slid in. _Big back seat…probably has to fish ballplayers out of all sorts of places,_ he thought. _I'm sure I'm the last…_he rolled his window up tight.

When the Boss got in, he turned the key in the ignition, and stepped on the starter button and gas, but apparently only so he could turn on the overhead light, and get the heat started, because he left the car in neutral. _God, the third degree, with lights,_ thought Jack. _But the Boss wasn't like that, he thought,_ and felt a little better. "Now _settle down!,"_ said that personage. Jack wrapped the jacket—he'd never buttoned it—around him, against the cold, against what was coming.

"Yes, Boss," he said, simply, and looked at him, with the ghost of a smile.

The Boss looked at him and chuckled.

"Jack, you look so…" he shook his head, "damned _cute_ in that great big jacket."

Jack felt heat rising all over his face, and little prickles, like tiny capillaries breaking. He realized he was blushing profoundly, felt if he were at a corner, he might be mistaken for a stoplight. The Boss opened his mouth, probably to say he was sorry, but thought that would only make things worse, so he didn't.

"If we were to get moving," said Jack, pleasantly, "the heat would come up quicker, we'd get to the hotel sooner, and you wouldn't have to look at me blush, cause the light would be out." He carefully pushed Ennis's sleeves down.

The Boss turned out the overhead light, put the car in gear, and stepped on the gas.

"I'm sorry. I said it—because I meant it," he said. He didn't say anything for a moment; then: "When you left the stadium this afternoon—"

From the depths of his memory Jack brought up, and said regally: "No, no! Sentence first; verdict afterwards!" And then he added from his own mind, "And dis-dispense with the evidence altogether."

"You read "_Alice in Wonderland_?"

"My daddy—my dad was a Southern Railroad detective. He loved the trial at the end, said it was about like most of the trials he had been to." Jack laughed. "He read it to me, with lots of feeling, imitating all the voices.' Then his smile faded, as he returned to the present.

The Boss stopped for a red light at the corner. "However, your request seems a reasonable one…" He paused for a moment. "I want you to promise me—"

"Already?" said Jack, closing his eyes, and putting his head in his right hand, the thumb under his chin, his little finger over his nose, and the other three climbing his temple.

"You said, 'Sentence first.'"

"Yes, I did."

"…that this love affair between you and Ennis will stop. Now."

"O.K. Can we talk about something else now?"

"Jack…"

"I don't want to talk about it, if that's O.K. with you."

The boss nodded his head, and was quiet for a minute. Then he said, "When you are elected to the Hall of Fame—"

"I'm not going to be elected to the Hall of Fame. I can't hit for shit."

"You hit better than many great shortstops. Yes you will. Not in my lifetime, and," he sighed a little, "probably not in Ennis's, but probably in yours---"

Jack was suddenly all sitting-up-straight and bristle. "Whadaya mean, 'probably not in Ennis's'? He's a year younger'n I am! He's healthy as a horse! Take my—hey, even his _hair _is healthy. He has the reflexes of an—Ennis." He was breathing hard, and he was scared…because the Boss was almost always right.

" You think your friend will live to make old bones?"

He stumbled over the meaning for a minute, "Live to…sure he will!"

"Blood pressure's a little high."

"Well look what he has to put up with—my God, I'd have been dead a year ago!"

"Yes. You would have. Jack! I'm sure you've imagined, from time to time, what it's like to play football with your spirit, every minute of every day…like Ennis does."

"God, yes. I don't think anyone else could have…"

"Such pressure is a terrible, terrible drain on the body."

"Oh…God"

"He will be an old man many years younger than I was when I became one."

Jack was holding his eyes wide open, something he hadn't done since he was a kid. Then he gave up and lowered his lids, and two great tears slipped down his cheeks. Without taking his eyes from the road, the Boss handed him a handkerchief. "Thanks, said Jack. He wiped his face and held himself in his own arms, as if it were still cold, holding Ennis.

"As I was saying," said the Boss, "when you are elected, that year—you're right, some people will have forgotten you. You'll never hit 500 home runs, or drive in 150 runs in a season, or have a 56 game hitting streak—"

"Nor will anyone else again, " said Jack, irrelevantly.

"--but those who remember you will say to everyone who has forgotten, "Remember Ennis," because you were his friend. But even 35 years from now, those same people who think your contribution to baseball was so great because you were his friend would be horrified to learn that you were also his lover. That's just the way this… terrible… sport is."

Jack buried his face in his hands. He already knew this; was surprised to hear the Boss say it.

"Also—I think you know, but you probably only think about it 85 of the time—when Ennis, or Roy or Larry—or any of the other Negroes who follow them into the Major Leagues, does _anything _, on or off the field, each action and word has a singular importance, to them, usually, but also to those of their race and others who love or hate them. Every hit, every throw, every dropped ball is for---_all the marbles_ .

Jack sobbed, and then laughed.

"And it may be a terrible injustice, even 50 years from now, no one in baseball would be upset to hear that baseball had deprived you of the love of your life, or even him of his.

"Why?" But by now he knew, from what Ennis had said.

"Because everyone who bats a ball around a baseball diamond, and—most—of the people who watch them are sexual idiots. Perhaps—I don't know if this is true—it's partly because every man who puts on a Major League uniform can have any woman he wants."

"God knows that's true…but the rest of the country doesn't know that."

"Right now, as you probably know, the morality of baseball is in keeping with that of the rest of the country…most of it. But even if the time comes when most of them are laughing at us because of this, baseball will still be the same. I think it will be 100 years before you can—possibly--kiss Ennis goodnight in Ebbets Field."

"Mm."

"What"

"Not sure I want to wait that long."

"I know that. But the time may come, because of the things I've told you, that if you don't keep your promise to me, your relationship may add to the pressure of Ennis's problems, instead of being one of the few releases from them."

"God damn all the little fishes in the great big sea."

"Indeed. All the little fishes that both of us know and love."

"Boss—could I have beaten this rap, instead of pleading guilty?"

"On the evidence? Oh yes. But I would have known, and eventually, others would as well."

"What...evidence?" (he realized he was asking for what he had earlier said he didn't want.)

"One: When you left the stadium, you smelled like Ivory Soap. Just now, in the restaurant, you both smelled like sandalwood soap."

"Oh jeez…"

"Two: I was intrigued by your "not yet happened" experience—and your reaction to it—enough to ask the night clerk at Ennis's hotel (you noticed I parked on that side of the street) whether each room also had beautiful Indian rugs. He told me none of them had any rugs, just linoleum floors."

"_God_, that was reallya long shot,' said Jack, and then covered his face with his hand, which was silly, because it was dark in the car. "Jack," he said out loud to himself, "that was just beautiful."  
The Boss continued as if nothing untoward had been said. "Three: I watched the two of you from the car before I went into the restaurant. At first, you were plowing through ribs like there was no tomorrow. Then you looked at each other, and stopped eating."

"And?"

"Four: Although I did not mean to embarrass you when I said how cute you looked in Ennis's lieutenant's jacket, I don't _think _I've ever seen a grown man blush like that before…besides, who plays cards for 6 hours?"

Jack laughed. 'We do, sometimes. The blush was mainly because I knew you knew…. Not much, is it?"

"Just enough."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Jack dropped a dime in the hall phone, right next to his room, but his roommate was inside, asleep with the lights out. The corridor was empty. In his left hand, he held a little cotton pouch, with dimes and nickels in it. Jack favored long phone calls, but there were no pockets in his pajama bottoms—all he had on.

"Hello."

"Hello."

"Hey, Sweet Spot." Jack closed his eyes.

"Would you prefer Ping Pong Paddle?"

"Wh—"

"No sweet spot on a ping pong paddle."

"I love you," said Jack, quietly.

"'..and when I love thee not, chaos is come again,'" said Ennis, in a deep bass voice.

Jack was so overwhelmed by one of his dreams coming true, he hardly noticed the content of the words, as lovely as they were. "Ennis..you _did _him! You did Robeson just perfect."

"I have the records of the play—with him and Ferrar. You know, the new ones that play forever."

"Did you see _Othello"?_

"Hell no. I was in the Army, getting court-marshaled (which of course I beat). I dunno about Robeson anymore." (Politics were not further discussed.)"Where are you?"

"At the hall phone."

"No phone in your room?"

"I don't know; since my roommate is there, it didn't really matter. Don't think there is."

"So…I assume you and the Boss talked baseball all the way home…like hell."

"Boss knows all about it…"

"Did you really think I didn't know that? So what's the verdict?"

"There are no gay guys in baseball, and you can maybe kiss me goodnight in Ebbets Field in 100 years."

"He said _that?"_

"Yeah…the second part. He managed to get the rest across, without seeming to."

"No fuck words?" Jack giggled. Billy Cox appeared at the end of the hall, coming his way.

"No. Billy's coming."

"Vital notes from all over."

Jack laughed out loud. "Billy's a night person," he added, of the great third baseman.

"Hi Jack."

"Hi Billy"

"Who're you talkin' to?"

"My girlfriend at home. (Jack was married)."

"I'm gonna tell."

"Who?"

Billy laughed:"Good question. Me, I guess. Night Jack."

"Night Billy."

"And it's all on you, right?" said Ennis.

"Yes."

"Poor, innocent little Ennis."

Jack gathered his thoughts, waited for Billy to disappear. "It makes sense. You're more aggressive than I am."

"More earth-shattering news." Jack laughed again. "So—you have to defend my honor, right?" said Ennis.

"Exactly. He made me blush…like I probably blushed the first time you made me come…"

"Mm." Said Ennis.

Jack was getting a weird idea, he thought. "Puts the light on in the car and told me how cute I look in that great big jacket. Ennis? Is there such a thing as telephone sex?"

"Yes."

"_Yes? _Since when?"

"Oh probably since the invention of the telephone…it's not usually conducted in hallways."

"Score's 3-2."

"Right…"

"Wanna?"

"With you,. Sweet Spot, that might be nice. Yeah…Suppose someone comes down the hall again?"

"Then we'd have one-way telephone sex interruptus." Ennis laughed.

"Can I stay sitting in this chair?"

"Whatever you like…I just do the talk; you do the work. I know you think I'm the strong, silent type." Ennis laughed. "But I can talk _real good _when I want to."

"Me and all my various parts are waiting."

Whatever you're wearing, get rid of at least most of it—and is it warm there?"

"It's warm, cause the window's closed. Yes, Captain. Think this is what the Boss had in mind?"

"Not exactly." Jack lowered his voice to just above a whisper. " It's a hot muggy night in Ebbets Field, July or August, and everyone's gone home but you and me."

"God! A short story."

"Shut up and play ball."

"Yes, Captain."

You're sitting naked in a chair someone forgot to bring in, by the dugout. You can see the sky, full of stars. It's real clear. I come over and you pull me down on your lap…like you did, two or three lifetimes ago. I'm wearing my uniform."

"That's kinda sexy, but I can't see it, cause I closed my eyes."

"You hold my head and start kissing me, and I start..fucking your mouth with my tongue, but slow and easy, like I got all night…. I run my hands slowly up and down your arms…I love your arms, Ennis…they're so beautiful. Then I slip down between your legs, to my knees, And I start kissing your belly, all over, and put my hands on your hips."

"And I try to push your head down."

"But I don't let ya. Can you hold the phone under your chin?"

"Yes…you're pretty good at this."

"I love to talk to you, Ennis. I love to make you laugh. I love to feel you come."

"Hey, Sweet Spot…me too, you."

"I take my hands off your hips and pick up your balls in one hand, real gentle, and stroke your dick with the other. Then I wet my hand, put it all the way around your dick, and slide it up and down, but still not hard…what's that noise? You making tea?"

"My nose."

"Oh yeah, I remember…then I … I lick down your stomach, into your dick hair, and play with the hair with my tongue…than I lick the tip of your dic k, where the slit is…then all around the tip, and I'm playing with your balls, tickling between them, petting them, squeezing them a little." He could hear Ennis's breath , quicker now, through his parted lips. He looked down at his pajama bottoms (all he had on) _Goddamn,_ _I've got a hard-on...it's like he was here…_

"Then I take your dick in my mouth, in and out, slowly getting more and more of it, keeping the same rhythm."

"Watch those teeth," whispered Ennis.

"Hey, leggo of my ears; I know what I'm doin'!" Ennis laughed.

"Where'd you get that one...tell me later."

"And I open up and take your dick all the way in, and a little out, and in, harder now."

"God, Jack…"

"An I look up at you…"

"Hello, brown eyes…"

And I do it some more, out and in, and I squeeze your balls hard.."

"Jack…" suddenly there was a loud noise, like the telephone fell.  
"Ennis?"

" I dropped the phone on the floor….tie score…"

"Hey, all right! Well…sort of..maybe half a point? I've got one hell of a hard-on through. Wish I was in bed…there."

"I was going to warn you about that. I wish you were in bed here. Too." Said Ennis. "Maybe…3-2 ¾. Leggo of my ears..where'd you get that?"

Billy Cox came back down the hall, and looked at Jack, who was facing the wall. He took him by the shoulders and spun him around, looked at his pajama bottoms. "You two been talkin' too long," he said simply, and continued on his way.

"I heard that," Ennis laughed, So—where?"

"My friend in high school. We'd say it all the time, after he first said it to me. I'd be helping him with his homework, and he'd say it…"

"How am I going to make up a quarter of a run? Point? Whatever?"

"You'll have to kiss me till I come."

"Jeez—don't make me any more uncomfortable than I am!"

"Sorry, Sweet Spot."

"How are we going to get out of Ebbets Field?"

"Guess we'll have to sleep on the bench in the dugout. God…I'm...exhausted." A cloud of guilt settled on Jack.

"Ennis…the Boss told me…what we're doing, feeling…might hurt you. Might..add to the pressure that's on you."

"That what love is for. Joy and hurt…I'll let you know when—it's more hurt than joy…as for pressure, unlike you, I now feel a lot less pressure than I did 15 minutes ago, Sweet Spot…"

Jack laughed, but knew there was more to it than that, what the Boss had said.

"And nobody can ever find out."

"We all know that."

"There's one thing he told me, I can't tell you."

"That I won't live very long."

"How'd you know that?"

"Because I know it. I'll be the first of the team. To die." (He was wrong; he was the second.)

Jack was crying again. He was exhausted too.

"Hey, for a Captain, you do a lot of crying."

"Yeah,. Especially today, Bird."

"What'd you call me?"

"I know it's not as good as "Sweet Spot"—nothing could be…but I thought it was O.K."

"It's taken."

"I know. Charlie Parker—cause of the way he warbles on the saxophone."

"Nope. Cause, when he was young, starving, and traveling with friends, he told them to stop in front of a farm, that he knew the guy, and could get them some food. He went into the back yard, and throttled a turkey, came out with it, saying "Supper."

"Didn't know that. You won't share?"

"Sure I'll share, what's good enough for Charlie is good enough for me. Y'know, they call girls that, in England. Birds. And, hundreds of years ago, it was a term of endearment for a girl---Bird.

"I thought of the way you take off, stealing a base, after you've just been standing there, in a staredown with the pitcher—like a bird in flight. Or when they catch you in a run down, and you pretend to stop, and pretend to start, like a bird teasing a passle of cats, and then you go, this way that way, changing directions like a--starling with the flick of a wingtip, till they all get dizzy, and someone throws the ball into the dugout."

"Sweet Spot, the best poem by a ballplayer just got beat out. You missed your calling: you should have been a poet instead of a shortstop."

"I'll forgive you for that under one condition."

"What?"

"That you'll let me kiss you goodnight in Ebbets Field in 100 years."

"It's a deal, SS...if not sooner, somewhere. Now carry me to bed, SS.

"You carry me, B."

"Who's going to be MVP this year??"

"Secret."

"Hey, even I know the answer to that one." (Strange, because the vote was very close.)

"You conceited sonofabitch."

"Night, Sweet Spot."

"Night, Bird."

Jack's roommate was asleep. _Well thank God for small favors,_ he thought, as he climbed into bed and grabbed his poor lonely dick.

Five minutes later, his roommate, an intelligent, even compassionate, pitcher, turned over and said quite clearly. "I heard that."

"Jeez! I thought you were asleep! Was I _that _noisy?"3"

"It's hard to be quiet when you're inspired," replied his roommate. "I wanted you to think I was asleep."

"Nosey."

"Well, I'd been listening to your voice on the telephone for 45 minutes, the rise and fall, the pitch, the laughing, the lack of laughing…the only words I understood were what you said to Billy, about a girlfriend. That was a lie."

_I'll call and raise him_, thought Jack. "Yes, it was. Well?"

"Captain, I think you are one goddamned lucky sonofabitch. But…I won't always be your roommate, you know. This is strictly an Atlanta arrangement."

"I'll keep that in mind…" Jack lay on his side, his hands under his face, the light from the street through the window illuminating his expression, as it did his roommate's.

"Know what you look like?" his roommate asked.

"What?"

"Like a kid whose mother is telling him what to wear to Christmas dinner after he's just opened all his presents, and every one of them was exactly what he really wanted."

Jack smiled. 'Got that right."

He fell asleep almost instantly. The dream began pleasantly, but as sometimes happens with dreams, especially if the dreamer is exhausted, it turned grim. He dreamed that when the team got to the ball park the next day, the magnolia tree was gone. They were all grinning, slapping each other on the back. Although they hadn't dug it up or knocked it down, it was somehow due to them that it was gone, and (in his dream) they were all rejoicing. This time, the Crackers didn't score even one run. Ennis stole home (he actually did this the following day, Sunday). Jack was going to eat with Ennis and Dr. Green, but suddenly, he found himself back out on the playing field again, alone, as evening approached; somehow, he'd missed Ennis. In his dream, he was cold, and had no Army jacket now. And way out, in front of the deep centerfield fence, the huge magnolia tree was back, its dark green leaves blowing in the gusty wind, even the lesser branches stirring restlessly, its big white blossoms glowing in the setting sun.

**

* * *

****Author's notes**

I heard "Cotton-Eye Joe" on a phonograph record by Josh White , 1944-45. He refers to it as an "old lullaby." For those with a practical turn of mind, there was one diamond in the World Series rings the Dodgers got in 1955. There are several reasons for doubting that the song dates "from the time of slavery," though it is so described, but it's possible.

**Note 1**: to keep book: Pitchers and catchers, but players in other positions in the field as well, keep mental or actual notes on what such-and-such a batter did, last time he was thrown such-and-such a kind of pitch. Since the catcher is calling for a certain kind of pitch in sign language, everyone on the field (on his team) has some idea of what kind of ball is coming. It's very helpful.

**Note 2**: A pitch behind the shoulders: This is the most deadly of all pitches. A batter will instinctively duck and move back as he sees a pitch coming at his head or body, and if the pitch actually goes _behind_ him, he will back into the pitch, instead of away from it. (All errant pitches can be thrown accidentally or on purpose).

**Note 3**: The Great Experiment: This was what some called the Boss's novel idea, and very elaborate plan to integrate baseball (which as we all know, succeeded).. It was probably first said in dead earnest, but later, some people used it jokingly (perhaps because they thought it pompous)—while others continued to use it seriously. More jokingly used was "The Noble Experiment," which meant the same thing.

**Names:** I have changed the principles' names, and the Boss's (who had a truly wonderful nick name of his own), and have left Jack's roommate's name unrecorded—though I had a particular man in mind (who also had a wonderful nick name). I have shamelessly recorded other names exactly as they were in life, including Ennis's wife's, the two team names, the name of the ball park, the name of the Grand Dragon of the Klan at that time, Roy, Billy, Larry, the Duke.

The park lasted till 1966, and the Crackers' (one of the best minor league teams in '49)) team till '65--Major league teams regularly played minor league teams during the pre-season (and still do, occasionally, half-heartedly).

**Quotations:** many of the quotes attributed to Ennis and Jack are quite real. And others, even: "Hey, Snowflake, what teammate's wife you gonna make time with tonight?" is real. Conversations and the relationship between Ennis and Jack are entirely imaginary. Except that they were the best of friends.

Ennis died at 53; Jack at 81.

The magnolia tree still stands.

**Things I don't know at all**: where Ennis slept in Atlanta in 1949; whether Ponce de Leon Ball Park had shower facilities for visiting teams (probably; it was pretty fancy), and the quality of drinking water in Atlanta at that time. Also: whether the Boss was in Atlanta then. It was a very important series for him, representing one of the first played by his embryonically integrated team in the "real South," but he was the General Manager, not the Manager. You can probably find lots of mistakes if you look for them.

Oh: the duofold scorekeeping card has existed since before 1882, but I'm told the Crackers didn't have one. They have grown extinct, replaced by $5-$10 slick magazine about the home team, with a scorecard in the center.

Song "Someone To Watch Over me," by George and Ira Gershwin, from _Oh, Kay!_ 1926.


End file.
